You Left Me
by Nicholas de Vilance
Summary: //ConnMurph// Connor's lost his soul...Murphy wants it back //angst...slash, twincest...asshole-ism//
1. I look at him

Nicholas: Hey, There's kind of an odd story behind this. It popped into Becki's head and of course she asked If I'd write it, but I told her I wouldn't being that I'm already working on a challenge of hers and I though that would be the end of it...but NO!! It just wouldn't leave me alone. I HAD to write something because her inspiration bunnies had been sicked on me and were gnawing at my brain.

Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue me

Rating: M...language...angst...some smutt.

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I look at him…

He is sleeping beside me, chest moving up and down, up and down; it's the only thing that tells me he's really alive anymore. Even breaths of nicotine-stained air constantly forcing it's way in and out, in and out of his ill lungs like a recording put on repeat meant to play until the player breaks. A faint, unsteady flutter of his heart beats up in an uneven rhythm against his sternum: evident traces of the excitement just a short time before. His body splayed out beside me, head leaning gently against my chest holding that calm, cool, emotionless face; it sometimes makes me shudder to look at it. Tan skin has waned pale over the past few weeks of being stuck inside and in the shadows and even as he sleeps, the tension doesn't let him be.

I look at him lying there…

There is nothing inside him anymore. Once upon a time, he loved me. Somewhere over the rainbow, his heart flew away and left me the cold shell of the man… The man who used to hold me in his arms at night and coo loving words in my ear with his Leprechaun lilt: naughty fantasies of what he wanted to do to me, silly, petting endearments, and promises that "I'll never leave you." You left me a long time ago. It may not be intentional how you shut me out, but it becomes more and more apparent with everything you do. Even now, just laying there sleeping after our routine nightly escapades. I can't fathom when or how you adopted the habit of literally almost passing out after you come. You used to at least have enough energy to embrace me so that we could slowly fall asleep together. Ever since you left me, it's been wearing against my insides; it's been _so_ long—too, too long.

I look at you lying there…

Thinking back, I can pinpoint the exact moment that you left me. It's funny, your worst nightmare seems so far away, but then it was right there in front of me like a slap in the face that night so long ago in Yakavetta's basement when the both of us had to watch Rocco… All of the times I had seen men die before couldn't prepare me for watching a bullet rip through his chest, tearing out blood and chunks of meat and _life_. I remember looking at you, _his_ blood spattered across your forehead, and when I saw the terror pulling at every fiber of you being—pulling it so tight that it might have snapped in the same moment that Rocco drew his last breath—I lost it. I had more will to kill those bastards then, than I'd ever had before for _anyone_. However, even then, after that, you were still there. You cried harder than I've ever seen you cry as your heart and soul tore itself into little pieces and bits, but it was still there for me to see. It went away—up and fled—and I could tell by the expression on your face, when I told you to break my hand so I could slip it through the cuff. I know it had to so that you could be detached enough to really hurt me, but…

I look at you lying there and…I don't know…

I thought it would come back after a while. I knew and even expected that your sudden lack of emotion came from that horrible trauma, but that was almost a _year_ ago. A _year_ of—how do I say it?… Of looking at an empty smile, hearing a cold, half-hearted rasp in even your lightest of laughs. So many months and weeks of never hearing that you cared when you said that you love me. God, all of those days of feeling you so far away even when you're head is right here leaning gently against my chest. Seeing someone else when _your_ dull nails would dig into my back, _your_ head pressed against the pillow, _your_ voice screaming my name in that magnificent, orgasmic fire. It wasn't the same…It didn't feel like _your _body that I was driving into over and over and over again, never seemed to be the same. Even if it was you fucking _me_ senseless, even as every thrust of your hips brought me closer and closer to that sweet, familiar release, it just…wasn't _you_. I couldn't help this nagging feeling that I was just there so that you could relieve some of that tension. Is that the only reason you…?

I look at you lying there, looking at me…

"What do you mean?" he asks. His touch as he lays his hand on my chest isn't loving or gentle as it _would_ have been, it's just there.

I mean this…this _thing_ we've been doing all this time, this charade of our lives before. You left me, but where did you go, Conn? Where could you possibly get to that I'm having such a hard time following? I need you with me, I need you here. Come back to me, love.

He makes a nervous face and just looks at me for a moment. "I'm right here," he lies. Or maybe it isn't a lie; maybe he just doesn't know how horrible this is for me. I'm not sure what's worse, but either way it's making me nauseous.

I look at you lying there, looking at me with those cold empty eyes and I wonder: where's my brother gone? Where's the man who once could be so completely open with me? the man I could laugh with? the man I could cry with and would cry _right along with me_? Bring him back… Where are your tears? Can't you cry anymore?

With a sigh, he sits up, looking away from him as he pretends to be preoccupied with rubbing a kink from his neck. "I don't know what you're talking about." He's annoyed. That's laughable—he's always annoyed. It's either annoyance, anger or vengeance with this new Connor. This new thing that _is not_ my brother glances at me over his shoulder. "Can't you just go to sleep?"

I don't want to…don't sleep yet, _please_? Can't you just hold me, just for a little while?…before you turn cold to me again.

The look he gives me, I'm not sure I like it. In fact, I'm pretty sure I don't. It's one of those looks that reminds me back when we were in school, way back when the teachers hated us and scolded us every chance they got with _that look_. _That_ fucking_ look_. Then, the most absurd thing happens: he rolls over and away from me. "Stop being such a girl," he mutters.

That's it. I've had it with this fucked up melo-drama of his. No doubt I've been more than patient with him because I love him and he needs _endless fucking patience_ sometimes, but this is really too much. That _asshole_. Who the fuck do you think you are? God damn it, Connor! Why don't you just slit my throat and spit down it?

"Where are you going?" Now he turns to face me. Hah, now that it's just a second too late. He'll beg my attention now that I'm no longer at his side giving it to him anyway. I just cross the room. "Hey, what are you doing?"

"I'm going to bed." I snap. As I lay out on the cool sheets that had been there untouched on _my_ bed for a year and a half now, I felt that tightness in my sinuses telling that it's coming. I know immediately that there are tears in my eyes. And as he looks at me lying here looking at him with a single drop falling from each duct, I can't _believe_ that he can just lie down and go to sleep. That _PRICK!!_


	2. I need him

Nicholas: Hah! Spacey thought that was the end! You should really check the summary. It says that it's incomplete. This is part two, enjoy. Three comes next a long with much needed smut...oops, did I just say that?

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I need him…

He's sitting there, staring into space like he's been doing the past five days. Looking at the door, at the window, the palms of his hands, _anywhere_ but me. _Everywhere_ but me, his eyes flutter about from the pale mask of his beautiful face, restlessly seeking the one thing to set him at ease. He's been restless since we got our "calling" from God; his nervous ticks have been multiplying and I've noticed. A buzz of movement came from him especially when he wasn't moving—when he was just trying to rest—and I knew he never was able to relax. I take a few steps toward him and offer him a beer. As he takes it his fingers expertly avoid any contact with mine, though I'd purposely held the bottle in a way that I thought he'd _have_ to touch me to get it. He didn't even look up.

I need him so much…

I think I might die if he keeps this up. He say's that I'm not allowed to touch him—_at all_. Not just that I can't hug him, kiss him, grope him, shove him against a wall and…woah, let's take a step back… He said that I left him, and I honestly have no idea what he's talking about; I'm still right here where I always was. I'm right by his side just like I promised I'd always be, _what more do you fucking want_!? You know damn well that I'm right here and I wish for God Himself to come down here and explain your asinine method of "bringing the _old_ Connor back." I can't stand being so near you and not being able to just reach out and touch. I know I could do it anyway, but where would that get me? You'd just get pissed and kick me out. Why _don't_ you just kick me out!? I can't seem to kick my ass into gear to get the fuck out of here when this nauseating musk of isolation you've put on me is smothering my lungs worse than cigarette smoke. Why can't _you_ do it? I know you fucking want to.

I need _you_ so much…

The morning after _that night_—don't pretend you don't know what night I'm talking about—I tried to wake you up like I always do, like you always let me do. You shoved me! You pushed me back so hard that I fell on my ass, and I'm sure you got a laugh out of that. The truth is, I didn't really get up. I'm still sitting there, staring wide-eyed at you as you say "Don't you dare, fucking touch me." I'm still giving my undying attention to the memory of your horrifying facial expression when you practically cut my hands off at the wrists. _Don't _touch_ you_? What am I supposed to do, sit alone in a corner playing tiddly-winks with manhole covers? And for the record, you didn't have to smack me when I thought for a moment that you might not be serious. It shocked me so much that I just _knew_ you had to be kidding. I mean, since when would you tell me something like that? Oh right, since I "left" you… I'm right _fucking_ here, you dumb ass! And you're pushing me away. You're breaking up with me as if you were some disgruntled boyfriend! I thought if I gave you a few days…

I need you so much that…I don't know

If I gave you a few days with anything else—and I do mean _anything else_—we could possibly be fighting over, you would have gotten over it and come up to me and kissed me till I'm breathless and longing. What I wouldn't give to have your hands on me again, touching me in places they shouldn't, making me want you even more with their rough, brutal touches…_fuck_, I'd even settle for just a brotherly hug. If you don't want to be lovers we can at least stay brothers, can't we? You can't do this to me forever, I know you _too damn well_. I _know_ that there will come a point when you either take me back into those arms of yours or kick me out on the streets, I just don't know if I'll survive at the rate you're going now. I mean…it _hurts_. Physically, it hurts, not just like some kid in a candy store staring at the sign that says "look don't touch." It's the same concept, but I find myself gasping for breath just wondering how long you can keep doing this. It hurts you too, I can tell…

I need you so much that you're hurting me…

"Are you planning on reaching a point any time soon?" he says flatly, examining a chunk of the table as if he expects it to jump up and dance.

You know damn well what my point is, you prick…I don't even know what you _mean_ when you say I left. How am I supposed to fix anything if I don't know what's broken? God damn it, I'm not going to go around crying every time I stub a toe, if that's your problem!

"Oh shut up!" His voice has about as much emotion as mine does at the moment—which is about next to none. I can see the muscles of his shoulders tense and relax beneath his shirt as he continued his thoughtful silence.

…I _need_ you so much that you're_ killing _me and yet you just sit there and ignore me! God! It hurts so bad, Murph. Don't do this to me, _please_, don't leave me in the dark. Tell me, I'm begging you, tell me what you want me to do. You can't just sit there like that forever.

"Try me…" He pulls his hand away when I reach for it and takes a drink of beer. "If you honestly don't know why, just keep in mind that I'm doing relatively the same thing that you've been doing to me since we lost Rocco…the key word being 'we.' I lost him too, and yeah, it sucks and I'm sad, but Christ what's wrong with _you_?" I can see the wave of passion that he's fighting back to keep himself from touching me—kicking, hitting _ hurting_ me.

"We _buried_ Da a month ago, and you just stared…where were your tears—"

You mean that man who abandoned us for twenty-three years of our lives and then all the sudden wants to be 'Father' again, where were my tears for him? You have no idea what was going through my head that day. I _tried_, believe you me, I _tried_ to cry—wanted to, even—because of how you were bawling into my shirt. I can't! I mean I really _can't_! Please just…

"I told you not to touch me." He gets up and turns his back on me leaving me staring after him, sitting on my knees beside his vacant chair…still sitting there by the bed where you shoved me that morning.

My head is really pounding now, and my eyes are trying not to squint at the sudden blaring pain behind my brow. I can feel myself shivering but I'm not cold; I can't help but gawk at his back—you're body is lovely no matter what the angle. Do you hate me?

"No, I love you very much." He's on his way to the shower, but he stops for a second—still not looking at me. "But you don't seem to want to love me. You want to fuck me. If you want a fuck toy, go out and find one…don't let the door hit you on the way out."

I can hear my mind snap audibly and I'm no longer in control of my actions.


	3. To Promise

Nicholas: Final part of this trilogy of Becki's and mine because she just HAD to have smut. And NO Connor is NOT going to to rape his brother. That's a bit silly, if you think about it...So here it is, have fun.

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**Murphy**

He grabbed me from behind—scaring all _holy hell_ out of me, I might add—and my first reaction was to squirm to try to get away from him. I twisted as his arms wrapped tightly around my waist and shoved him to get him off of me. I'd told him time and time again that I didn't want him touching me! Still, he didn't let go and it occurred to me that he couldn't have if he wanted to. The way his fingers locked together behind my back, arms desperately stiffening to keep me near him, but I _told_ him not to _touch_ me! I made an attempt to back up and lean out of his embrace, but he thought ahead and came with me, sending us both falling to the ground. I landed on his hands making him hiss in pain until he let the grip go and planted tight fists on either of my shoulders, pinning me to the floor. "Get off," I snapped venomously.

"No, damn it!" Pressing down ruthlessly on my skeleton, he leaned his head down to press against my cheek, the contact almost forgotten until he was so insistent. His body was shaking mercilessly against mine, and try as I might, I couldn't see his face. "Just touch me, _please!_"

I'd told him no for five days straight now, what made him think I was going to all of the sudden say yes just because he had me tackled to the ground? My hands were at my sides and there they would stay. Even when I felt his lips—those soft, familiar lips—press against my neck, I forced myself to stay still. This wasn't what I wanted from him. I forfeited all movement and gave him one last warning. "Connor, get off of me now, or I will walk out that door and never come back." It made my heart flutter to a stop for just a moment to think that it had really, _actually_ come to this.

Abruptly, he lifted his head to look me in the eyes, incredulity playing card games across his façade. I haven't seen him use that expression since Ma gave him a box of condoms on our twelfth birthday. Then his raised eyebrows furrowed and the corners of his mouth curled down in an angry grimace. "Don't you dare say a thing like that," he muttered, his voice barely anything.

"I'll give you three seconds." I wasn't fooling around here.

It was like trying to watch a hummingbird's wings flap attempting to catch all of the changes that were taking place with his brow, his eyes, his mouth, his nose. Grimace deepened into scowl and the creases in his brow grew like ink spreading over paper. His neck bent awkwardly, taking away the look in his eyes that I had suddenly found so fascinating and I could feel the quivering of his form start to intensify. "But…" a hoarse whisper was all he could manage, I barely heard him at all. "…but I can't…Murphy…_please_…don't…" I stopped trying to make sense of his whines when suddenly his elbows collapsed and he fell down onto my chest, his face buried into my neck and collar.

I can't even _begin_ to describe the aching shudder that ravaged through me when I felt the first of his sobs slam against my chest. A lump the size of a football formed at the base of my throat and I found it hard to breathe I was so alarmed. I think that such a long time of his apathy made it so that this seemed horrifying, unreal…unnatural. His body jerked slightly as a gut-wrenching whimper escaped his throat. Right there, before my very eyes my brother was breaking down, ferociously blubbering into my shirt and as much as it hurt to watch, it was exactly what I'd wanted. I carefully reached up and touched his back as it retched up with the force of his melt down.

"I'm sorry!" he moaned quietly in between gasps of air and croaks of uncontrolled cries. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" I thought he'd never stop saying it. "I'm _so_ sorry!"

**Connor**

Once I started, I couldn't really stop. Tears kept flowing like a broken water-vein and my chest kept contracting in on my lungs forcing out almost embarrassing howls and sobs. Even once he had helped me up off the floor and ushered me over to the couch—holding me tightly as if he'd never let go again—I couldn't control the rage of emotion that he'd unleashed. The downside was that it hurt like a bitch after about three minutes. After that I wasn't sure whether I was crying because of what Murphy had just put me through or the way air stabbed like knives at the insides of my lungs every time I took a breath. He sat with me, rubbing my back and keeping me relatively still in case I wanted to spontaneously fly off the couch and away from him, and I couldn't help the sudden spew of words that came forth from somewhere in my mind I'd thought was dead.

"It's okay," he told me gently, stroking my hair. His touch never felt so good as it did then. Not in some perverse, erotic way, either. Feeling him against me, holding me when I almost thought he never would again, just made me cry harder, but it seemed so right when he was the one I was crying for.

I understood then, and I'm sure he did too because when I tried to explain through my incessant whimpering he just shushed me and said "It's fine." I had never meant to shut him out, but he was damn right about it happening anyway. That night when Rocco died just hurt so much that my mind knew I couldn't bear it to happen again. I became more detached, colder and it even felt like after that night every single tear that my body was capable of creating was used up. I literally _couldn't_ do it anymore until now—and right then _did_ feel like a year of build up trying to get free all at once.

Things were a bit muddled in the muggy, sticky wetness on my face. Suddenly I was looking at him from the side as he searched a cupboard for a cloth of some sort to dry my face since his shirt was already soaked. I could breathe again, still hic-uping just a bit, and the broken faucet of my tears was starting to ebb so that I could see relatively clearly. I hugged my arms around myself, feeling achy and yet strangely relieved.

"You okay now, Connor?" he asked me.

I nodded and even though he didn't quite see me he knew the answer. He came back over to sit next to me once more and reached up with a clean handkerchief to rub the salt-water off of my skin. Not able to stop myself, I cupped his hand with mine and held it against my cheek, trying to cherish what I must have been insane to take for granted. Pulling the cloth away, I kissed his palm and nuzzled against his fingers—a few little droplets still forming in my eyes.

"I'm sorry," I started to say again, but his thumb came up to cover my lips. He didn't say another word to me as he leaned in and kissed my cheek—easing away the tears. Nothing really needed to be said and the silence made his actions more real, more apparent. I needed to hear him, though; I needed to know for certain that the isolation was over. My muscles moved before I knew what I was doing and I slipped down off the couch to my knees to wrap my arms around his legs and lay my head in his lap.

"Connor…" I heard him mutter. His hands came to rest gently on the back of my head.

"I fucked up, didn't I?" I couldn't keep the quiver out of my voice as my tight throat rasped those words.

"It doesn't matter now." There are no words in ANY language to express how calming his tone was. Five days was enough to make me ache so badly that I was certain, even if this contact lasted forever, it would never go away. The lovely, _candide dulce_ of his voice as he caressed my hair with light pets helped to prove me wrong and stitch up the scars. I felt him lift my head so that I looked up at his face, salty acid still stinging at the corners of my eyes so his pale features were slightly blurred. "It'll get better now, right?" Both of his thumbs ran beneath my eyes to scoop up fresh tears as his palms cupped my jaw delicately. "Stand up, _deartháir_. Don't grovel, you look silly." I couldn't help but smile and he did too.

I wasn't on my feet more than a moment before he pulled me forward, arranging my knees on either side of his hips as I came to rest on the couch once more. Pulling me down, he pressed his lips against mine and weaved his long fingers into the strands on the back of my head. To hold myself up, I gripped the back of the couch, digging my nails into the upholstery when I felt his hands massage down my back in long, tingly strokes, ending up at my back pockets to squeeze lightly. The skin of my lips was almost numb with the sensation of his taste—the taste I actually thought I would never experience again—so when he pushed me up more and broke the kiss, he had to stop me struggling against him.

His face nuzzled into the front of my shirt and kissed his way downward as his hands urged me sit up farther. When it came to the point that he actually sneaked under the fabric and lapped teasingly over my belly button, not only did my grip tighten on the couch, but I grabbed hold of his hair as if I was clinging to the edge of the world. "Still crying?" he asked, hot breath exciting shivers and tickles along my skin.

"Nothing to cry about," I replied carefully, thought I still had the tightness in my face and throat from that emotional break down but a few minutes before, "I have you."

With a chuckle and another nudge to my ass, his open mouth slid over my jeans and pressed against my crotch to cup a good-sized bulge that _he'd_ created. The heat seemed to envelop my entire body as it sunk through the denim to my sensitive skin. It never felt so right as it did then…never felt so true to have his mouth on me. _Then_, when he finally got my pants undone and down just enough…oh god, I think I died and went to heaven. My forehead pressed against the wall and I felt my eyes close tighter every inch deeper he took me into his mouth, down his throat. The first swallow—such a tight contraction of muscles—made my head pound in the most inspiring, delightful way.

His hands moved up and down my thighs for a moment before sliding over my bare flank. I felt his finger poke and prod and finally force its way inside me while his other hand wandered up my shirt to hold me still. Open mouthed pants and the occasional, uncontrolled squirm were all my body would consent to as he ravaged my entire being, sucking me inside out and back again.

**The Both of Them**

Connor moaned like a mad man as he felt himself lowered onto his lover's waiting erection. The entirety of his naked form hitched sharply as his hands flailed away from the back of the couch to apprehend a merciless grip on the cotton fabric of Murphy's black shirt. Knees digging into the cushions, thighs tightening, mouth hanging open: he was the embodiment of Eros—god of love, lust…sex. His back went as stiff and taut as a bowstring and seeing it made Murphy grip him more securely for fear that the deity before him might take flight.

The dark-haired twin took complete advantage of the other's intoxicated state to smother his mouth with a kiss. His tongue pressed against the other's and then meandered back to brush carefully over the hard palate as he rolled his hips up, making Connor mewl lovingly. Hands slid up to cup the back o his head, as his own held on to the other's waist to keep him in place as he began a pulsing rhythm up into that tight, familiar heat. After a few thrusts, he managed the right angle and Connor bucked like a horse, tearing away from the kiss and whining contently form the back of his throat. "There?" Murphy asked, lapping at the hallow of his neck.

"There!" Connor replied, grunting loudly with the next driving push of Murphy's oh so insistent genitalia. "Right there!" He kissed his lover sweetly, ragged breaths coming between them. "Thank you, thank you…"

Nothing ever hurt so good in Connor's opinion. There was definitely _nothing_ like riding his brother with those comfortable, massaging finger tips digging into his back. It all fell into place with those pale arms wrapped tightly around him, pulling him down to meet every pump into him making each one the deepest it could possibly be. Tingles shot through his limbs every time his lover managed to stroke that _one_ spot inside him. That's when the pressure really started to build up.

Murphy could see it just by looking at his face and it was _indescribably_ refreshing to see so much emotion—after the long term of lacking it. The taste of salt had long since disappeared from the other's cheeks, but Connor's return from wherever he'd fled to was now flooding him with mannerisms Murphy had thought long gone. Gripping the blond spikes on his brother's scalp, he held his head up just close enough that he could see the constant change of pained to pleasured, pained to pleasured. Half-lidded, intoxicated eyes met his, closing and re-opening in time with his rhythm. "There you are," the dark-haired twin muttered, putting their lips together like the pieces of a puzzle.

That moment was what set it off. A shrill cry shot up Connor's lungs and reverberated around the cavern of his mouth as the pressure started to breach and then overflow, sending him over the edge. His brother came right after him, almost simultaneously, thrusting sharp and deep into the muscles that clenched down around him. Arms clamped tight like chains as they clung to each other, intent on never letting go if it got to that point.

"Touch me," Connor demanded with little more than an airy rasp against the other's ear.

"Gladly." Murphy's reply was less cheeky than planned. He immediately drew one hand around to his brother's face and cupped the cheek before bringing him around to look deep into those blue eyes.

"Don't ever do that to me again." Of course, both knew what _that_ referred to.

"Never ever, I promise."

"Then I promise I'll never lose you. Not again."


End file.
